from your bright jacket
you pulled a little fold
of yellow legal paper.
folded and folded and then
someone folded it up
again.
it bore a coffee stain
like a broken heart.
a good one.
a gourmet broken heart.
you unfolded it tenderly,
like a guilty lover
ravaged with guilt.
you then read to me
a poem you wrote
on a street corner
in little puerto rico.
it was a sad affair,
by most critical standards.
a shiny poem that glinted
like a tarnished penny,
and was all about
how you thought;

"the sun rules!
the wind is right!
and i am so happy!
i am so happy!
i just want to finish
this little poem,
so i can just scream!"

i sat back in my chair,
i smelled prozac in the air.
i sipped at my coffee,
swished the bitter culture
around on my tongue
before swallowing it down.
i thought about how
i've never been taught
to appreciate a good poem.
one that makes me happy,
because it is nothing more
than sillystupidhappy.
it demands a smile as i try
and pedal my poetic grief.
is it a matter of culture?
is it the matter with me?
why am i afraid of writing
happy poetry?